Jet-black Caravans lance through the green-brown flatness of Oklahoma in search of angry weather, and Bill Paxton argues with Helen Hunt as their fully loaded cherry-red Dodge Ram hurtles in roughly the same direction. The villains are in the sinister soccer mom transport vehicles, but really the villain is a big tornado that killed Helen Hunt’s dad when she was little, but really the villain is the third entity that forms in bad marriages, resentment that takes on a smell, like somebody packed fish guts in the walls of your home. You have spent fifteen years talking to each other and realize you don’t know how to communicate. This is what you get for basing a life together on a shared hatred of high winds — and, presumably, apocalyptic sex. The fully loaded cherry-red Dodge Ram gets where it needs to go (right up next to a big tornado) and the bad guys don’t (impaled by a hunk of metal, exploded). Our two heroes kiss in the rain. This is the only understanding they can reach. They don’t love each other; they love death. The fullest satisfaction of their desire is to chase obliteration hand in hand, and eventually find it.